


i am the hammer

by shutyourdamnmouth



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Avengers fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-27 05:06:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutyourdamnmouth/pseuds/shutyourdamnmouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>yeppppp it's just storm sex</p>
            </blockquote>





	i am the hammer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [callmearcturus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmearcturus/gifts).
  * Inspired by [an old-fashioned notion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/826875) by [callmearcturus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmearcturus/pseuds/callmearcturus). 



> yep yep yep

Michael’s not one to bitch about the side-effects of having nearly unstoppable power, what with him having nearly unstoppable power and all, but if there’s one fucking problem with being a thunder-wielding demigod it’s the tension that follows a storm. Something about a natural lightning storm sets his blood on fire and pulls his skin tight with energy. Jack awkwardly explained it to him using mortals and oysters or some shit, but all that matters to him is how wired it makes him feel, heart roaring with the thunder, twitching from every flash that splits the sky.

It’s always been a struggle to keep himself tethered. Even after extensive third-party analysis, after settling on Earth faster than back home, the feeling is a constant twist in his gut, winding him tighter.

Except now there’s an outlet for him.

Now there’s Gavin.

Gavin, who lives like he works, with a fervor no one can hope to match, contain, or understand; who functions like a storm himself, stupidly bright and free-roaming and a complete fucking disaster; who takes in Michael’s wild eyes and barely bridled tension, and instead of running tips his head towards the sky with a grin.

“Not one of yours, then?”

Michael’s reply is lost in the swell of rain, not that it matters. This isn’t their first time bearing down through a storm together; Gavin knows he’s not here for the usual banter, that he’s too wound up from feeding on the crackle of static in the air.

The porch steps crack in the wake of his boots and Michael lets out a frustrated noise, catching Gavin in a rough kiss and pinning him against the door.

“Griffon’s gonna be pissed,” Gavin breathes out against his temple while Michael smears his lips along Gavin’s jaw, like either of them actually care about the fucking stairs right now. Later, after Michael’s blood is circulating away from his dick, definitely. Right now he has a storm beating desperation down to his bones; the pendant digs at him as Gavin arches against him, feels white-hot against both of their damp shirts, and Michael shudders.

“I’ll fix it later,” he promises, mostly to himself. His mouth can’t seem to focus, skipping from shoulder to lips and biting at those too, sucking hard at his lower lip, pulling Gavin closer by the hair when it’s still not enough. Fumbling for buttons gets them nowhere, the erratic sway of their hips as they rock together making more frustration than progress until finally the door groans under the strain and pops open.

They topple inside with a colorful swear each, thankfully landing on the rug instead of bare hardwood floor.

“Door,” Gavin pants, grinding against the knee Michael pushes between his thighs. Outside, the wind picks up and carries the heavy downpour inside with them, soaking Gavin’s jeans up to his thighs and sticking Michael’s soppy curls to his face. Between their desperate rutting and roaming hands, Michael somehow manages to fumble both of their jeans open. Gavin bucks up with a gasp. “Get the bloody  _door_.”

“I’ve got the fucking  _door_ ,” Michael growls back. Without looking, he kicks it shut hard enough that he leaves a splintery boot print in the wood. “Fix that too,” he tacks on before Gavin has the chance to call him out on it.

Gavin’s jeans are torn in the struggle to disrobe, and he lets out a breathless laugh, repays the favor by dragging Michael’s shirt up and then his own nails down bare skin, leaning up to chase the marks with his mouth as they heal.

Michael hangs his head and shudders again.

“And that,” he groans belatedly. “Fucking fix everything.”

“I’ll fix you, ya dope,” Gavin snickers softly, but Michael feels it tenfold, vibrations dancing over his skin, rocking him forward, down, their hips rolling together when Gavin wedges a hand between them and frees Michael’s dick from his jeans. It’s not what he wants, not nearly enough, but he pushes into it anyway because there are limits and then there are  _limits_ , the kind with emphasis that make him feel like he’s going to snap if he doesn’t do something. He’s so far gone that he doesn’t even realize Gavin’s managed to shimmy out of his jeans until leg hair scrapes at his hips.

“I haven’t--”

“I did,” Gavin interrupts. “Uh, before.”

Michael lays a forearm beside Gavin’s head and sucks in a calming breath. It doesn’t really work.

“You fuck yourself before I got here?” he manages.

Gavin glances away and tightens his grip, reminds Michael just where his hand is with a few rough jerks, already flushed from more than just the dry-humping they had going on. It’s distracting, but not enough so that Michael misses the soft, “Might’ve done” that Gavin tries to hide in the sweaty skin of Michael’s neck.

Keyword, of course: tries. Michael catches Gavin’s mouth along the way and sucks hard on his lower lip, easily swallowing the low noises when Michael probes around lower, nudging a finger in to check, and groaning when it slides right in, easy, slick. It must’ve been recent, at the start of the storm probably, right when the clouds began to roll in and rumble.

Michael’s hips stutter forward when he thinks about it, how Gavin must’ve opened himself up, same as the sky. Another push but harder, because Michael’s not the only one affected by the storm and Gavin probably came all over himself trying to get ready, straining up like he does now when Michael replaces his fingers with his dick.

The rhythm they build is a desperate mess, their fucking rough enough to skid the carpet along the floor, rough enough that Gavin can’t hold his head up after a few minutes and instead lets it drop to the floor with a strangled gasp, eyes clenched shut and nails dug in tight. When Gavin bucks and jerks a hand free to get himself off, the pendant slides free of Gavin’s shirt and rests along in the crook of his neck, glowing vibrant and bright between flashes of lightning.

Even after Gavin chokes on his moan and slicks their stomachs with his come, he still rocks up into it, moaning low. Michael doesn’t get how they always end up on some weird feedback loop, drawing double off each other and then triple from that, but it’s overwhelming enough that Michael doesn’t fight it. When the tension snaps, he lets go, the world drowning out in a deafening, roaring wave that swallows him up like a ship lost at sea.

Gavin’s heart is a steady beat against his ear, though; it draws him back, peeling away the tangled mess in layers until he registers the idle scritch-scratch of nails along his ribs, and when Michael finally scrapes his eyes open he snorts.

They aren’t fully undressed, only in patches; couldn’t even make it to a furnituresque surface, too excited to fuck like freshly unsupervised teenagers.

It’s goddamn ridiculous, but it’s also pretty goddamn perfect.

“Ruined the fucking rug,” he mumbles.

“Yeah,” Gavin sighs, sounding both tired and giddy. “S’pose I’ll have to fix that.”


End file.
